For all that remains
by footshooter
Summary: SPOILERS for S2EP3. So much so that I won't even do a summary. But it follows on from it. In an in-depth character summary kinda way. T for swearing and coz I don't like rating any lower .


It was crushing, the despair. John had never felt anything like it before. Sometimes he couldn't breathe, but he kept going, hiding it from those around him – Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, his psychiatrist (the woman he _paid _to talk to) because he couldn't let it out. He couldn't.

He followed his sister's example and turned to drink but really it did nothing for him. He tried sleeping pills, just to dim the pain slightly, but they didn't help. He checked his phone almost obsessively, just in case by some miracle he was still out there, and he was watching.

John realised talking to him was fairly wrong when he couldn't even speak his name, he realised that the people in the church next to the graveyard probably thought he was some sort of creep, but he couldn't help himself.

Because he _had _been so alone. Because he _had _owed him so much. And he just wanted him back.

His best friend, his world, his, well, everything. All ripped away because of Moriaty. And if he hadn't have been dead, John would have ripped out his heart himself, just to see the expression on his fucking face. Because he did that. He caused that.

And to know that, in the end, he had lied to him. He had said that he was a liar. Everything was a lie. That broke John's heart. Because he was extraordinary. He was a man like no other.

He was gone.

John needed a miracle, and he prayed every night.

…

Sherlock was always within a distance, but never seen. He figured that John was getting shivers, the perception of being followed, but he played into that becoming the media or some random stranger just so he didn't notice. He was so filled with grief that he didn't piece it together.

Sherlock had seen him at the gravestone, had heard his pleas, and he wished he could answer because life without John was nothing and he hated it.

He still talked to him when he was alone.

But he couldn't. He couldn't allow himself a thing like John because he always seemed to be putting him in danger and he just couldn't.

And that concerned him, because he'd never felt like that before.

He'd spoken to Mycroft, he'd arranged the funeral, after all. His brother had called in one last favour to completely wipe his existence off the map, but all Sherlock was interested in was how John was doing, how he was coping. It was sad and pathetic, really. But he couldn't help it.

John was his friend and he… He…

He missed having him around.

And that's why he lurked beneath the window practically all night in the days following John's return to Baker Street. He'd hide in the shadows so that John couldn't see him, but he was clever. He was sure he suspected.

…

John was sat in the flat, so quiet and so empty and so alone.

He didn't know why he'd come back. He should have stayed as far away as possible because he didn't think he could cope anymore. He couldn't go on without Sherlock.

But it was his home and he had to do _something_.

He had to keep going.

He was good at that.

John was making tea when he looked out of the kitchen window and saw someone wandering that looked exactly like Sherlock. Same posture, same clothes, same hair, same, well, everything. He leant forward so sharp, and so quickly that he hit his head against the pane and swore loudly.

When he looked again, the man had gone.

…

Sherlock had gotten restless, hadn't been looking properly, and had to hide again, leaving his sighting to John's imagination, letting him feel that he was seeing what he wanted.

Allowing him to go slowly mad in exchange for his life.

That was fair, wasn't it?

Wanting to see him was just selfish, wasn't it?

Sherlock's phone vibrated in his pocket, and he pulled it out.

The caller ID was John.

…

John got a shock, staring out of the window, and something about him hitting his head had jolted him out of whatever stupor he was in.

He started to cry, and he couldn't stop.

He just wanted Sherlock with him.

Some way to speak to him.

So he pulled out his phone and dialled the number.

Strangely, it rang. No one picked up, but it made his heart leap into his throat through the tears. He knew that he'd just end up disappointed again, but he couldn't do anything else. He just wanted some sort of communication.

It went to voicemail, so he left a message.

…

Sherlock rang voicemail, even though he knew he shouldn't, even though he knew that it was a bad move.

Moriarty was still out there. Jim was just a puppet. He'd discovered his weakness and he needed to distance himself, to let it lie. But he was convinced that if he heard the message he could walk away without issue.

John was wrong, Sherlock owed him. He'd always looked out for him and he should have listened when John mentioned the media. It all had happened because of his ego, because of ridiculous circumstance that could have been avoided.

And he'd broken John when he supposedly broke himself.

So he _owed _him to listen.

He looked at the IOU painted on the wall, and pressed 5.

"_Sherlock? It's John. I know… I know you won't get this. And, well, Mycroft or someone will and I'll look a right twat but I just… I… I can't… I just… I miss you so much. You're my best mate and you lied to me. I _know_ you weren't a fraud. I _know_ you're brilliant. And if you're as fucking brilliant as I think you are then WHY HAVEN'T YOU CAME BACK?"_

John had been sobbing throughout, but he ended at a pitch of hysteria. Sherlock listened to him cry for a minute or so before he had composed himself again. It felt like his heart was about to split into two and he wanted to hang up the phone but he couldn't. He needed to hear it. He needed to hear John's voice.

"_I'm sorry, Sherlock. I just miss you so much. I feel like I have nothing left. I never managed to hold down a relationship when I was with you, I never managed to have a great family connection and everyone else, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, they're all so pitying. And so boring. I just wanted to speak to you one last time, Sherlock. Because I... I… I miss you, mate. I do."_

The message went dead and was replaced with a woman talking shit about listening again and saving. Sherlock saved the message and popped his phone back in his pocket, watching the outline of John's shoulders in the window shaking.

…

John felt like a prat already, but he couldn't stop crying.

He wanted to tell himself that it wasn't natural, that the mourning process was different, but he knew it wasn't.

He wanted to kid himself that he'd said everything he wanted to, but he hadn't.

What was the point now?

The chance was missed.

Sherlock was gone.

A key turned in the lock, but he didn't notice. His sobs were so loud that they filled the house. He was glad Mrs Hudson was at bingo tonight, or else he'd have her fussing and he really didn't need that.

A figure appeared in the doorway, changing the light, and he froze, choking back a sob, trying to compose himself into something more manly.

He wondered what the point was, really.

At the end of the day, he was nothing.

He might as well be dead now.

He glanced up, and was sure he saw Sherlock standing there. And it was round about this time that he convinced himself that it was an illusion and he was allowed to cry again.

Sherlock came closer, and he was crying too,

Definitely an illusion.

"John?"

Sherlock said his name tentatively, like he wasn't sure what to do, like he didn't know what to say. He edged forwards as though he was approaching some sort of dangerous creature, slowly, but far from composed.

John's vision was blurred by tears.

"I got your message."

John frowned, "What?"

"The message. The one you just sent."

Sherlock produced his phone and waved it feebly in the air.

"I… I wanted to say… I needed to protect you. He had gunners on you, and Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade. He killed himself instead of calling them off. I couldn't put you in that danger."

John was stunned, and pinched himself, which hurt.

"You… You did what?"

"I faked my death, John. But you asked for me back and so… Here I am."

John got to his feet and advanced on Sherlock. Sherlock looked concerned. John thought he should be bloody concerned after all he'd put him through. He didn't know whether he wanted to punch him, or kick him, or touch him or just smell him to know he was real. He hadn't worked that out yet.

He stopped about a foot in front of him, staring up beyond _those _cheekbones into his eyes. Sherlock crumbled in front of him.

"I didn't want to lose you. I would rather you lost me than I lost you, John. You could cope. I couldn't."

"I can't cope, Sherlock. I can't let you leave again."

"Then I won't."

Somewhere in his mind, John decided this was real and the shock kicked in.

"John, I am so sorry."

John ignored the anger, the shock, and the hurt. He pushed it to one side, just for a while.

And instead he reached out and took Sherlock into his arms.

They stood and neither knew how long, but the hug meant more than anyone else could imagine. It was an apology, an acceptance, a transfer of feelings and an outlet of grief.

And John held on to Sherlock until they stopped crying.

And then he made tea, and toast.

And then they went to bed.

Just like old times.


End file.
